


Advent IV

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Advent fluff, Christmas Fluff, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment of John and Sherlock and friendship. Because no matter what, I do love their friendship...love it to bits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent IV

Midnight has passed. The guests from the county ‘round have returned to their homes. The band has departed. In the kitchens the last of the clean-up is being done by the catering staff and the few regular employees brought in to handle the house during the holidays, and by Cook, who reigns in solitary majesty throughout the year, whether the house is open or not.

John’s shucked out of his too-formal monkey suit, and into a pair of pajamas and a robe that, to him, also seem too formal. Mycroft, however, has supplied bounteously for his guests, and even John can confess that it’s less embarrassing to go rummaging around the big manor house in a silk smoking jacket, flannel PJs, and kick-on slippers than it would be in his usual attire—a vest and pants. If that.

He slips through the dark halls and down the stairs, making his way to the library, where he knows there’s a bottle of superb scotch. He is in need of…something. A moment to mark the changes in his life. A moment to stand, poised, between all the now-lost “then” and the sweeping now that threatens to carry him away.

He finds the room, finds the scotch on its own shelf on the oak bookshelves. He collects the bottle and a cut-glass Old Fashioned tumber, and moves toward the French doors letting out onto the terrace overlooking the back acres. It is only then he realizes he’s only the second to arrive. He turns back and collects a second glass, then slips out to lean beside the tall, familiar figure raising a cloud of smoke and steamy breath into the night sky.

“Those things will kill you,” he says, putting the two glasses on the stone rail, and pouring generously.

“So I tell Lestrade,” Sherlock says. “Still, they’re irresistible.” He sucks smoke, savors it, eyes closing for a moment in bliss. Then he opens them and releases a slow stream of smoke into the chill air. It floats, twists, trails into nothingness against a hazy banner of stars.

“A conundrum, I’ll admit,” John says. “Like this.” He holds up the glass. “But I’d have given anything for Harry to have been able to give up the pleasure, just for the years it would have given her.”

They’re silent, then.

Sherlock finishes his cigarette, butts it out cleanly against the stone rail, and slips the remains in his pocket.

“If I leave it around I’ll never hear the end of it,” he says. “Mycroft’s such an old woman.” He takes the glass of scotch and cradles it between both palms, letting his hands warm the liquor. He leans over and smells the sweet, smoky perfume. “However, credit where it’s due: he buys the good stuff.”

“That he does,” John says. He doubts he sees scotch of this quality from one year’s end to the next. “I thought you might still be with Janine,” he says, voice carefully gauged to invite confessions without sounding too eager for them.

Sherlock smiles, those long, wicked almond-shaped eyes narrowing, his growing collection of crow’s feet crinkling. “Nosy parker.”

“What? Just observing,” John says, laughing under his breath. “Thought you two ended things last year.”

Sherlock shrugged. “She’s a terrible dancer,” he said, as though this were somehow a good thing, not a black mark.

“Yeah. I saw you teaching her out here alone earlier,” John said. “Pardon me if I have this wrong, but when you’re dancing, aren’t you supposed to move more?” He raises a hand and gestures, finger stirring a circle in the air like a couple moving in a waltz. “Stand still like that in the middle of the dance floor you’re going to cause a right pile-up.”

Sherlock snorts. “We were attending to the fine details,” he says.

“Is that what they’re calling it these days? Who knew?”

Both laugh, voices low as they try not to wake the house.

After a time, Sherlock says, quietly. “I do miss the old days, you know. You. Baker Street. The two of us alone against the world. Those were good days, John.”

“Never over,” John murmured. “You said so yourself. They don’t end. The story’s never over—even if in the end it’s going to move on without us. Meantime, though, we’ve got plenty good days ahead, too.” He offers his glass in a toast, and smiles at his companion. “To the best of friendships.”

Sherlock smiles back, and their glasses clink together. “The very best. My one great friend.”

“Not the only, though,” John says, sounding both pleased and sad. “Your heart’s grown a size or two, Grinch.”

Sherlock shrugs and ducks his head, bashful. He sips his scotch. After a time he says, softly, “I’m glad you came. Mary and little Em, too—but… John, I’m glad you’re here.”

John nods. “Me, too,” he says softly.

They stand together, then, nursing their drinks, stretching their moment alone together long past the point of shivering in their robes and clenching cold toes in their slippers. Only when the false dawn turns the sky a plummy grey does Sherlock at last sigh, and say, “Well. I’d best go in if I’m to be any use tomorrow. Mycroft’s determined to burn a Yule log, and have carolers in. Someone has to keep him from going completely mad and sending out for mummers and Morris dancers. God knows Lestrade won’t. If ever there was a doting spouse…”

John laughs. “I know. Mary’s laughing her arse off. She says I’d best not start hoping she’s going to fuss over me like that.”

“No. She knows you’re a proper mule—best when you’re well beaten,” Sherlock snarks. “You should have given The Woman a closer look. She might have suited you.”

“Not me,” John says, grinning. “Me for the straight broad with the gun, every time.”

Laughing, they pass within, putting the scotch on the shelf. The glasses they leave on the library table, side by side, as though joined forever in friendship and good company.


End file.
